By this time the hue and cry was raised; and as the hero lay helpless in the corner three troopers burst into the inn, levelled their pistols at his head, and threatened death if he put his hand to his pocket.  Half asleep, and wholly drunk, he made not he smallest show of resistance; he surrendered all his money, watches, and diamonds, save a little that was sewn into his neckcloth, and sulkily crawled up to his bed-chamber.  Thither the troopers followed him, and having restored some nine pounds at his urgent demand, they watched his heavy slumbers.  For all his brandy Simms slept but uneasily, and awoke in the night sick with the remorse which is bred of ruined plans and a splitting head.  He got up wearily, and sat over the fire ‘a good deal chagrined,’ to quote his own simple phrase, at his miserable capture.  Escape seemed hopeless indeed; there crouched the vigilant troopers, scowling on their prey.  A thousand plans chased each other through the hero’s fuddled brain, and at last he resolved to tempt the cupidity of his guardians, and to make himself master of their fire-arms.  There were still left him a couple of seals, one gold, the other silver, and watching his opportunity, Simms flung them with a flourish in the fire.  It fell out as he expected; the hungry troopers made a dash to save the trinkets; the prisoner seized a brace of pistols and leapt to the door.  But, alas, the pistols missed fire, Harry was immediately overpowered, and on the morrow was carried, sick and sorry, before the Justice.  From Dunstable he travelled his last journey to Newgate, and, being condemned at the Old Bailey, he was hanged till he was dead, and his body thereafter was carried for dissection to a surgeon’s in that same Covent Garden where he first deserted his hackney cab for the pleasures of the town.

‘Gentleman Harry’ was neither a brilliant thief nor a courteous highwayman.  There was no touch of the grand manner even in his prettiest achievement.  His predecessors had made a pistol and a vizard an overwhelming terror, and he did but profit by their tradition when he bade the cowed traveller stand and deliver.  His profession, as he practised it, neither demanded skill nor incurred danger.  Though he threatened death at every encounter, you never hear that he pulled a trigger throughout his career.  If his opponent jeered and rode off, he rode off with a whole skin and a full pocket.  Once even this renowned adventurer accepted the cut of a riding-whip across his face, nor made any attempt to avenge the insult.  But his manifold shortcomings were no hindrance to his success.  Wherever he went, between London and York, he stopped coaches and levied his tax.  A threatening voice, an arched eyebrow, an arrogant method of fingering an unloaded pistol, conspired with the craven, indolent habit of the time to make his every journey a procession of triumph.  He was capable of performing all such feats as the age required of him.  But you miss the spirit, the bravery, the urbanity, and the wit, which made the adventurer of the seventeenth century a figure of romance.